


Perversions

by Agent_Zap



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: twd_kinkmeme, F/F, F/M, Feminization, Kink Meme, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Objectification, Racial exoticizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Zap/pseuds/Agent_Zap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt:<br/>“Merle is such a pervert! Andrea/Michonne Andrea/Merle Merle/Anyone </p><p>What exactly was he insinuating about Andrea and Michonne?</p><p>I just want some of his dirty little sex fantasies. <3</p><p>Bonus if theres some suppressed Merle/Daryl<br/>Bonus if he's wanting Michonne to tie him up.</p><p>(dont kill me : )”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perversions

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, and make no money from this.
> 
> Beta: Let's all hear it for...: Emmessann!!! Thank you!
> 
> Spoilers: Vague spoilers up to and including s03e07.
> 
> Stolen/mis-quoted lines from [Therapy?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YjTwWkGcS3Y) and (attributed to) [Iggy Pop.](https://chillercold.wordpress.com/2012/08/14/why-i-like-men-who-dress-as-women-and-women-who-dress-like-men/)

Life as lieutenant in Woodbury was okay. In fact, it was pretty sweet. Sure, there were rules, but it turned out following orders from the Governor in a world that was otherwise eat or get eaten, fit quite well with Merle’s ambitions in life – better than anything he’d encountered before the dead started walking. He was a valued citizen – which was hilarious. But also useful. As long as he kept doing what he did best - all those things nobody wanted to know or think about except the Governor; as long as he did that, all the sheep of the town, and himself among them, thrived and survived. 

They had their flowerbeds – he had power. Escaping from the rooftop had made him realize that in this new world, it would probably pay to be more careful who he pissed off. There was a lot to lose, and it had turned out that curbing his temper was only a minor sacrifice, since it was ridiculously easy to fool the small number of people that were left. Both the psycho Governor and his devoted town. Especially after the fever from his stump lifted, and he decided there was no point in getting wasted anymore, since he kinda liked this world and how it worked. His mind had become sharp and focused like he couldn’t remember being for a very long time. The Governor was easy to play, trusting completely in his own charisma. And the sheep… Well, they were sheep. And the return for pretending obedience, oh boy… He could do whatever he wanted, really.

Just too bad his brother wasn’t here with him. The runt had been too sweet for his own good. Merle liked to imagine he was still out there, somewhere – it wasn’t like he hadn’t had the skills to make it - though to be honest, he had probably pined away like a dog without its owner. 

It did get cold at nights. He could have had most any of the women in town if he wanted, but that was the governor’s unspoken privilege, and besides knowing better than to shit where he ate, he’d never fucked a sheep – dumb hick or not. He’d fucked plenty of crazy bitches, but they’d all had minds of their own one way or another.

So he’d gotten a lot of fine motor skills practice with his left hand, wishing at least Daryl had been there for audience and company, moaning quietly in the dark while listening to Merle’s stories.

Back in the dusty heat by the quarry, he’d whispered a lot about that Andrea girl. His mind had still swum and stuck back then, but he remembered the inside of his and Daryl’s tent in the nights, smelling of spunk and earth and their own sweat.

It had always been like a song he knew by heart, letting his fantasies flow out to Daryl. Andrea was blond, and curvy, and strong, but the best part of her was her self-righteousness. It was irresistible. He just couldn’t stop telling her exactly what he could do to her, because of the look on her face – the look that simultaneously told him how far above him she considered herself, and how badly she wanted it.

In the musty darkness, his hoarse voice had wound and bounced and fermented off of Daryl, curled up on top of his sleeping bag with his back turned, until it came back to Merle as something much more, something real. Like, he would get her up against a tree. He’d grab her waist and lift her up onto his thigh to ride, and she’d put her arms around his neck to hang on. He’d undo her shirt while licking her soft skin all the way from her jaw and down her neck. She’d taste like salt and soap. She’d gasp and whine with impatience while he opened her shirt and her bra and ran his hands all over her. He’d squeeze her nipples between his rough fingers, and knead those heavy breasts while she bucked against his leg. Her hands would claw against his shoulders and back, and he’d get his hand down into her jeans where she was up against him, and she’d be all slippery and swollen, and then… 

“You just strum that heat until she falls apart and is at your mercy, and she clings to you while you push into her slowly, into that soft, velvety heat, and you rub your face against the pale flesh of her chest until she’s burned and glowing from your stubble, and then you bite down, on her nipples, on her lip, doesn’t really matter, she’ll squeeze tight and drain you dry…”

Daryl would whimper.

Yeah, those Blondie tales were worth a re-visit.

But then she’d shown up in Woodbury. And not alone. Looked like somebody finally gave her what she needed. The night they arrived, he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all.

Of course they’d just been plucked out of the woods, and Andrea was sick. But he wished he’d been a fly on the wall in their room nevertheless. That mute wildcat had something magic about her. Well, she had to, the way she’d handled her party of two plus two. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around how that had worked. But certainly there had to be some chocolate/vanilla swirl involved.

He imagined them, in the shower, the black girl directing and tending to her shivering pet. Lather everywhere, small hands pushing into soft skin. They’d slip against each other, and Blondie would tremble and spread her legs as her leader took care of her, washed her all over, inside and out… She’d step out of the shower when ordered to, and let herself be sat on a chair and dried off. Then her mistress would comb her hair, over and over, until it was all untangled and she sat there in all her pristine, princessy perfection. They’d get under the covers, and Blondie would curl up on her side, Black Eyes spooning her. She’d feel soft breasts pressed up against her back, and strong, lithe arms circling her, and she’d be just like a pig in poop, with all that coddling and no choice in it.

In the morning, she’d wake up warm and tangled in both sheets and dark limbs, and she’d be shrugging off the fog of sleep as she felt herself being handled gently, hands slipping under her ass and her legs falling out like a paper fortune teller. She’d be bathed in the morning sun light coming through the windows, and helpless as her rescuer nibbled on her bits, opening her up and curling a strong hand inside her, pushing, pushing her over the edge again and again, until she had to recoil from soreness, and the sheets were soaked with her fluids.

It didn’t look like that was how it had gone that night, though. Apparently, Michonne didn’t buy the Governor’s façade. Definitely not a sheep, then. They’d danced around for some days, before the Warrior Queen decided to cut her losses and leave her errant property with the other farm animals. Merle was already prepared to make the Governor think he was the one sending Merle after Hurricane Michonne. But in the end that wasn’t necessary. Philip wanted the girl killed. Merle wanted to hunt her. So far, so good. But he really didn’t want her dead - she was a promising adversary. And she proved herself. He took care of things as needed.

However, now he found it difficult to keep his mind on the prisoners. He couldn’t put her out of his mind. But he might have a lead on his brother. He wasn’t sure he liked it, though. He’d survived with the group who left his brother on a rooftop? He couldn’t quite picture this Daryl.

What he could picture, was a bandana, dark pouting lips and burning eyes. A Japanese sword, sinewy limbs and an ass like Jesus’ feet – worth kissing.

He looked at the young couple in front of him and resented them for getting to prove themselves for luuurve. Who the fuck were they? Just sheep from a different flock.

He imagined himself in one chair, Daryl in the other. He imagined Michonne as himself; watching for any sign of weakness.

She wouldn’t have made him go a round with a walker. She was all up and personal. She would have kicked his ass – again – on her own. She’d have brought him down, and held him at sword point. Made him strip. He would have taken everything off for her, piece by piece. First the vest – then boots, pants. He’d stand up straight and naked. She’d have thrown him a lacy slip that used to be Blondie’s in another lifetime. And he’d have pulled it on proudly and with a smile, tight down over his chest and his belly, barely covering his dick.

He’d have said “I ain’t ashamed to wear ‘women’s’ clothes. ‘Cause I see nothing shameful about being a woman. How about you?”

She would have walked over to him, up close. The mass of her hair would smell burnt, almost like plastic. And she’d push him down on the chair, and start winding the rope around him. She’d tie every part of him – his hands behind his back, his feet to the chair – after all, she wasn’t stupid. Then gag him and tie that back to his hands, stretching his neck so he could feel his Adam’s apple bob awkwardly. His knees outward, the rope pulled around the back of the chair so his groin was forced forward, and his dick tenting the sheer fabric of the slip. He would feel pre-come make it stick to him, cold and clammy in the draughty room. She’d straddle him and grab his jaw with one hand, pushing his cheeks in and forcing his mouth open around the gag. She’d grab his balls with the other, and use them and the bony front of her crotch to mash his dick up against his stomach, squeezing tight. She’d breathe into his mouth:

“You’re not worthy of any clothes at all. I just like to play you.”

And she’d turn his head to the side – and that’s when he opened his eyes and drew a deep breath, because in his mind his brother wasn’t tied to a chair in the next room. Daryl was leaning against the wall, smug smile on his face and slick, hard dick in hand, nodding at him.

She’d better get that damn group from the prison back to Woodbury fast.


End file.
